Out of time and
out of place,
the fleeting memories
hovers above, distant, like a yearning
that will forever haunt my memories.
The many possibilities and the many what-ifs
replay themselves just to mock my weekends.
Serving as a reminder of my inability,
to bridge my dreams and everyday practicalities.
Out of time, maybe
but i’ll close the door when the chill sweeps through.
Looking on,
i kept my smile on
A smile, more for me than for you.
For what would ever happen
if i let go of my sensibilities?
I saw you smile,
even laughing sometimes
and i wished they were for me.
But time has tamed the confidence,
and memories have served
as lessons.
Past bright lights and night-time pedestrians
i strolled along, not quite sure of the pace.
And should i put my hands in the pocket,
then look down to avoid taking in the countless faces that passed?
You realized then,
you can’t be something to everyone
but can be the one to someone..
and the vast landscape beckons like a luxury you’re not used to…
Why does every end alters your inclinations,
when you know you’ll return to the familiar every single time?
rushing to the very end
that desperation to end on a high
yes that’s the way to end the year
end it the only way you know
the way that you want to be remembered
is the same way that got me done,
last time round
funny, the clock’s been efficient
then BANG
and the path clears
even memories threaten to disappear
only the taste lingers
like a sourness
which takes some getting use to
A sudden desperation to pen down floating thoughts
swirling around dangerously
threatening to explode
in ways unknown
Its hard
looking in too deep
Looking in from different windows
You overlook the nearest things,
the simplest of things
They yearn for that view
they listen to your rationalism
Worst of all,
they agree and thank you
but the one that matters
do not matter
The one that you hope for,
that perfect resting place
Continues.
Distant.
Elusive even.
Even when the storm is over
the winds still hold strong.
You never seem to get the chills
but i secretly know why.
With every storm,
I get shaken.
Not because of my fragility
but my disdain for extremes
Knowing your cover is within reach
might have make you feel invincible.
But as with all defences,
their tendency to resist
might succumb, one fine day..
Words get lost along the way
and who stops to read nowadays…
You have always liked pictures
but they can mean everything else,
except the meaning i convey…
So i try with lesser words
but you should know that
words run deeper than the lines on the page.
How i wish you could stop
for a moment
and feel..
Yellowed school certificates, loveletters of yesteryears
still emitting a faint floral smell and receipts
reminding you of past excesses.
Rather than a spring-cleaning mission,
the afternoon quickly morphs
into a guilt-laden process.
I wish the drawers are like the human mind,
generous with space and forgiving.
Long-forgotten memories?
Store them aside for future reminisence!
Emotionally-inducing memories?
Store them aside for future coffeeshop sessions!
But the drawers are screaming with their load,
just as my mind is loaded with past what-ifs.
Thus the spring-cleaning is necessary,
for i’m writing you into my new chapter.
As mechanical as it sounds,
the drawers can only store so much
no matter how you squeeze and fit the baggage in.
There once lived a boy who liked to ask questions. He was deemed so rude that while he was growing up, people thought he was just going to get himself into trouble one fine day.
Well, he grew up just fine but continued to ask many questions. While he was in school, his teachers always ignored his questions as they found him disruptive in class. He had always wondered how his classmates could be so receptive and contented in life, that they had no questions to ask.
At home most of his questions swirled around in his head, hidden from his parents. This was due to his parents either getting sick from his questions, or accusing him of being ungrateful for not being happy with what he has gotten in life.
"Mama, how do you know that god exist? I mean u can’t really see him, and if u say u feel Him, how does he feel like? Cold? Warm?" the boy had asked. Before he got his answer, he was already packed to his room and given a lecture by his mum through his locked bedroom door. He could feel the door trembling under his mum’s angry voice.
As he grew older, the boy who asked many questions got used to people not answering his questions. So he got on just fine but never being totally happy. You see, to him its not just about finding answers to his questions, but to see how many answers there are to any one question. He did not really care if the answers were right or wrong, he just wanted to question.
Sometimes he thinks this is a sickness. Or is it really a bad habit that will go away when curbed often enough? Is he really that ungrateful for his life so far? Isn’t life really about questioning whatever that triggers one’s thoughts?
